I do not know when this happened, but as if over night my sweet little Lilly Lou, the quiet one with a shy tendancy toward others, a sweet disposition and a coy look, has become adept at creating havoc and mayhem with a simple shrill scream.

As if pissed with the World – Incredible Hulk style – Lilly begins to turn the colour of a beetroot, the brow furrows, eyes narrow and then the fists ball so tightly she looks as if prepared to go into the ring – Mike Tyson beware!.

This little ball of rage then erupts into a screaching, wailing banshee, ensuring her immediate audience and the World around her knows of her rage.

I am beginning to wonder already if a call to ‘Supernanny’, is required – sooner than expected – to calm my little feral child and restore order to our lives, such is the distress we all suffer at the hands of ‘Damian Mk 2’!

Should I really be expecting such outbursts so young? Why have I been lied to and misled into believing that I still had another 9 months to go before exploring this not so wonderful experience of tantrums?

I am beginning to wonder if we should all be very scared and perhaps begin worshipping her in preparation for the forthcoming apocalypse and take over of the human race, which appears so imminent.

I am all for ‘Devil’ related horror and dramas but come on, I never expected to be raising the Devil itself, a little much of a big ask even if I dare say so!

Well here was me thinking I had got away with it, however it was not to be, I have passed on the dreaded gene which will for now see my adorable little munchkin donning a ‘Harry Potter’ styled pair of round spectacles!

Not bad I suppose, after all one out of the three daughters is quite good going I think.

I knew right from an early age that Lilly had problems with her eyes, call it mothers instinct or simply paranoia but it was evident to me that we had a problem and it needed to be dealt with. Lilly would happily sit there playing without a care in the world, one eye watching you intently, the other wandering off in a different direction as if bored with the view. The common name is known as a ‘lazy eye’, somewhat critical I feel to the wandering eye, assuming its lack of effort in keeping up with the other, like some teenager with the attention span of a spoon, how harshly this is termed and how pressumptious our accusations of the idleness this one eye ball possesses!

From a young age I too suffered from the ‘lazy eye’ syndrome, with one eye always on the right path and the other venturing off to see if a bus was coming. Enduring endless rounds of opticians appointments, hospital operations and glasses the eye was eventually steered in the right direction by a stern surgeon and told to behave and pay attention or else! The errant eye obliged – thankfully – however I remained and will continue to be a spectacle wearer, something I have with time and the help of ‘designer brand’ glasses managed to overcome and embrace.

So why did I feel such shock at being recently informed by the kind Doctor, that my dear little Lilly with the largest blue eyes and longest eyelashes was also to become one of the elite and would in fact have to commence wearing glasses immediately, continuing this look over the next several years? If I am honest I thought spectacles would ruin her beautiful face and make her look so different that she would lose that amazing cuteness both Florence and herself possess.

With trepidation we went off the the opticians and were presented with a choice of two pairs of spectacles, neither of which on first glance were particularly pretty and nor were they to provide the power of ‘trend setting’ to the wearer, my heart sank………….my poor Lilly Lou.

The glasses were ready for collection and on the advice of the Doctor we immediately placed them on lilly’s face and what happened next was both a revelation and a relief……..she really smiled, she stared, taking in the world around her that to this point would have appeared a smeary blur…….and most of all she looked cuter than ever!

Seeing Lilly crawling around at speed, keeping up with her sister and beaming at every new sight as if this were the first time she had really opened her eyes has made me realise that my fears and vanity over the way my daughter would look were insignificant and rather stupid, for the fact that my little girl is smiling and laughing more than ever before means that the little round spectacles on the bridge or her podgy baby nose, reminiscent of a female ‘Harry Potter’ have enhanced the world she lives in and only added to that warm fuzzy feeling I already embrace in my heart.

You trickle wee upon a stick and patiently sit back. The results return nice and quick and arrive with a resounding slap!.

Two thick blue lines appear inside the window of the stick, you hastily run through the leaflet checking you are not sick.

But sure enough it’s clear as day the pregnancy test confirmed, you are pregnant pee provider, up the duff with a baby on board. You sit back on the toilet seat and feel your insides squirm.

The emotions they gang up on you like bullies in a playground, your feet won’t move, your’e head a blur as you imagine yourself as ’round’.

You break the news to family and friends and are greeted with ‘ooh’s and aahh’s’ and start to realise that soon you will have a big tum and boobs and need a bigger bra!

Attending your first scan you lay back on the hospital bed, the usual fears mixed with happiness running through your head.

The Sonographer looks at her screen and with a bemused look, announces somewhat gleefully, its TWINS, take a look!

After what seems an eternity the news is sinking in, through the snot and tears and blurry eyes I realise I am having TWINS!

I pick my husband from the floor and thank the room of staff. I get outside look at the Husband and all we can do is hysterically laugh.

The pregnancy progresses well and my tummy grows larger each day, I feel as big as a humpback whale and have even developed a sway.

My stomach now resembles a large dinosaur egg consumed, I find it hard to get my backside up and move around the room.

The fateful day has arrived and with a moan and squeal. I announce to the Husband ‘its time my dear, you better get the wheels’.

Off we go to the hosptial to finally meet our babies, Husband in tow, bag in hand I am ready I think, perhaps, maybe?

With people milling and fussing around I am told I must go under, for the operation is too risky you see and they do not want any blunders.

I lay there on the operating table trying not to tremble, and think of all the things that could go wrong, the panic starts to assemble.

Finally the room goes black there is no going back now, I am asleep, out cold, have no control, it is up to the surgical crowd.

I groggily awake from sleep and open up my eyes, There is the Husband reading his magazine, and then I see a surprise. My mother has travelled from Scotland to be there for her daughter, I want to smile, I want to cry I really think I ought to.

Realisation hits me and I comprehend why I am in this very bed and slowly peer above my blanket to see two tiny heads.

Two beautiful little babies swaddled nice and tight as bugs, squinting back up at me with a look of awe and a request for hugs.

I lay back and am passed my girls to finally embrace and realise with a gleeful smile they are my babies, my girls, my darling daughters and have each an angelic face.

My two girls Flo and Lilly are the apples of my eye and I will remain eternally grateful for their wonderful surprise.

So I thought I would share with you all the little hobby I indulge in with the Munchkins, taking advantage of their young age and inability to protest at the mere thought of doing what inevitably would make them cringe if they were ten years older.

For every few months I don my beautiful dress, seamed stockings, laced shoes and red lipstick, pin my hair back and grab my basket and bundle the girls into an old pram in their best dresses to attend wartime re-enactment events.

I love this era of our history and feel very proud to be able to take part in these events and bring the history of World War 2 alive for the younger generation.

It is a period of our history where horrific events took place and many a life was lost in the great battle to save Europe from the Nazi invasion. However the thing I love most about this era is the war brought everyone together from all walks of life, with a common goal to stay alive, help others and save our country, it was an era where everyone took care of each other, where there was no time for excuses or ignorance and the unison of the wartime people was what ultimately gave us the strength and courage to defeat the Nazis.

My grandfather was a prisoner of war after fighting in France and being captured. He remained a prisoner of war and even managed to escape a couple of time, only dodging the Nazi firing squad I suspect because of his cheeky manner and his white blond hair and blue eyes. Men like my grandfather sacrificed everything for the freedom of this country and others and the prospect of us all having a future. For that I am eternally grateful and feel these events really bring to life the extent that wartime people went to and the sacrifices they made in order for us to have a happy and free future.

I am proud of those people, proud of the men and women who sacrificed their lives for us and proud of our country for standing tall and standing together to win the war.

I am however unsure if my daughters will thank me for publicising their angelic little wartime faces, however I am a parent and it is our duty to embarrass so here goes :)

It’s the weekend hooray, that means that for two days I get some help with the kids from the Husband.

There is nothing more satisfying than waking in the morning and knowing that you have an extra pair of hands to feed the munchkins, change their inevitable smelly bottoms and actually have a chance to consume a hot cup of tea and some toast without fighting off toddlers and scooping drool off from the usual cold and hard toast remains.

I love weekends as it means that wonderful gift of parenthood is equally shared with the loved one in your life who can experience a two day session with the little terrors and feel grateful at the end of the weekend for the respite of work on Monday morning.

This benefits me how you ask? Well let me explain to you. I think most men / women / family members think that stay at home parenting is a bit of a doddle, a walk in the park and a reason to be lazy and not do very much. After all in this modern age ‘Stay at Home Parents’ are frowned upon and expected to juggle both parenthood and working as are these modern expectations.

I however use the weekends to exploit my Husbands willingness to show he is a ‘new man’ and as an opportunity to heap an abundance of baby chores and baby amusing onto my Husband so he realises the hard work involved in raising two young children whilst maintaining both sanity and health in the process.

For when that working week begins and he starts his jobs with a relieved sigh to be escaping the chaos that sums up our household, I am sitting back with a relieved and somewhat smug grin on my face feeling now justified to go out and spend some cash on some goodies and have some fun with the girls……you see after the weekends my husband realises that you could pay him a fortune to be a full-time dad but he would gladly turn a blind eye to my spending as it’s worth it to escape the poo.

Weekends are for walks as a family in the local country park whereby we unintentionally annoy and harrass fellow part goers with a double buggy, Lilly’s expletives and Flo’s screaming rendition.

Weekends are about visiting the family and letting them spend time with the kids whilst you sneak out and have a break with a cuppa and a catch up with whomever is in the near vicinity at the time, after all adult conversation, two babies and living on a remote farm are not a well thought out mix so by the weekends I will talk the hind legs of a Donkey if it meant a little venting on my part.

Weekends are about me being ME for a few days and acting the kid and being daft as there is now a responsible adult around for the children. You see at 33 years old I am still awaiting that moment when I awake and I am officially an adult.

Weekends are about abandoning the pile of dirty washing, the sink full of washing up and the jam stains and juice marks artfully displayed on the furniture, for the weekends are about escaping the confines of the farm and exploring the outside world or on bad weather days slumming around in your PJ’s watching trashy TV and teaching the girls to fetch the remote, whilst arguing with the Husband over who’s turn it is to make the cup of tea.

I love weekends, however in my immediate group of family and friends I think I am alone on this one, could not imagine why?

So this week has been a little different and has made me realise that I have not yet fully got over the ‘baby brain’ infliction that comes from having twins, double the brain loss I would surmise.

Every week I conduct a routine led weekly shopping challenge with the babies whereby I attempt to purchase food for my little brood and cleaning supplies for the endless jammy finger prints, poo explosions and food throwing match aftermaths.

This shop began as normally as expected. After the hour of preparing the girls to leave the house and packing the car with every essential known to mankind in case of a torrential snowstorm, nuclear attack or zombie invasion, we finally set off on our way. The car crawling along, labouring at the weight of its cargo and no doubt wondering (if cars could do such a thing) if it had a higher purpose in life?

Finally we arrive at our destination, the humble supermarket car park. I expertly park the car, yes expertly, between two vehicles either side of me, yes without hitting either, and prepare the disembarkment of the children. Their belongings and mine consisting of the survival kit for mothers, namely handbag, mobile phone, purse, keys, baby wipes, nappies, food, beakers, cloths, spare vests, spare socks, toys, biscuits, coats, raincover, buggy, shoes (they have in veritably managed to remove during the journey), nappy cream, address book for emergency contacts, shopping list and oh not forgetting the babies themselves.

Safely away on our shopping trip we make our way through the fellow shoppers with the odd ‘excuse me’ and a ‘sorry’ here and there as the double buggy clips ankles and nudges pedestrians out of my path.

Now the girls have decided they are not going to play today and have conspired together to play a rather cruel game with their mother, bringing shame and pity onto me with their cunning actions. For every shop we enter the girls begin a unison of screaming and crying as loud as their little lungs will expand, ensuring the full attention of everybody within a five mile radius and thus demonstrating their orchestral ability to prove to everybody surrounding them what a bad mother I am for dragging these poor little fretful babies out shopping of all things.

They succeed at every stop, grannies cooing into the buggy exclaiming how sad the poor little angels are and siding with the girls by proclaiming with a scowling look ‘how dare SHE bring you out and make you sit their whilst SHE indulges in such selfish pleasures of shopping, there there babies, poor things’…….conspiratorially slipping pencilled notes into the babies hands with the telephone number for ‘Childline’ clearly etched for effectiveness of reading.

This game continues around each and every shop only ceasing when I return to the outdoors whereby the girls, upon realising they are moving and cannot engage any potential sympathisers, go about their daily gurgling, giggling and chatting as if they are having the most wonderful leisurely and carefree stroll!

After the marathon that was me running around each shop conducting my own version of mini supermarket sweep in an effort to thwart of grannies and other sympathisers pitiful looks at the girls and scornful looks at their mother, I finally got back to the Supermarkert car park and unloaded my half completed shopping list, cursing at the non existent items that I had forgotten in my haste.

Now Supermarkets hold a different light to the girls. Placed in the trolley seats, there they sit, eyeing their surroundings and discussing with each other the finer points of their earlier performances in the local town shops, providing each in turn with a pat on the back for the best performance.

We stroll around the supermarket with little effort and confrontation and manage to complete this shopping list with some success. We get to the cash till and I begin unloading the trolley with the help of the girls who have decided they will assist by removing any items within arms reach and throwing them as far away as possible, avoiding the goodies such as chocolate biscuits and strawberries of course.

After collecting the make shift missiles scattered around the other shoppers, aisles and cash tills, I finally load up the shopping, shudder at the cost of it all and conduct a ten minute discussion with the cashier over the increase in prices and discount options that could possibly be available to a poor and lowly twin mother? Walking away unsuccessfully from my discount bidding we travel back to the car.

Girls are happy, well of course they are going home to chill out and play, I am relieved I have survived this weeks shop in tact and still sane and all in the world is merry and good, I can even hear bluebirds singing angelically in the foreground……..then it happens. I fumble, I shake and then I begin dismantling every bag, item of clothing and child until at last I come to the conclusion that yes, indeed, I have locked my car keys in the car!

After spending a further ten minutes providing the children with a series of one day useful expletives of which Lilly happily joins in by repeating quite loudly ‘bugger, bugger, bugger’, I come to the realisation that I am still suffering with ‘baby brain’, my foregone conclusion being that I am a dick!

I eventually manage to bribe a friend to come rescue me after admitting to the husband I am an idiot and realising the admission need not have been necessary as he was out of town working and therefore was unable to help.

So off I trundle back up the escalators and into the supermarket cafe. Two tired and impatient babies, a trolley full of shopping and a watered down scum lined version of a cup of tea in hand I sit and wait rather awkwardly for an hour whilst the babies feel this the appropriate time to demonstrate their disgust at my actions and lack of sleep they should by now be enjoying. Customers of that cafe deserved an explanation of why a mother was sitting sipping a cup of tea, apparently switched off to the world, whilst her little defenceless poor babies were wailing at the top of their lungs. I considered the merits of standing up, climbing onto the rickety table and declaring to the world ‘I am an idiot, I have locked my car keys in the car, I am not a bad mother ignoring her two tired and irritated babies, I am in fact a stupid person, forgive me and the interruption to your afternoon cup of tea’…….instead I chose what most mothers in this situation would opt for…..ignorance.

We finally manage to get home after profusely thanking the friend in shining armour. Babies are in bed attempting to catch up on some much needed sleep after their exhausting routine of screaming and sad faces, the shopping has been unceremoniously dumped into whichever cupboard or fridge compartment looked free and at last I sit down with a decent cup of tea, slippers on and decide that perhaps Internet shopping is the way to go!

Things have been rather hectic over the past few months. I have now discovered that two babies who are turning into toddlers requires a lot of time, patience, humour and prayers and have come to rely upon the saviour of ‘nap time’ in the afternoons.

I now have two rather energetic little munchkins, who seem intent on injuring themselves and anyone else who gets in their path. Flo has decided she likes the art of ‘free running’ or ‘Urban Ninja’ whereby she deftly scales the furniture, treating them as high-rise buildings in her little world, jumping from one obstacle to the next and on occasion free-falling to the ground with a rather dull and heavy thud followed by the obligatory screaming at the top of her lungs to the let the world around her know that this mission was a ‘fail’.

Flo also likes to participate in her own form of Yoga, performing the ‘downward dog’ with professionalism and style and adding the odd ‘splits’ to the mix to liven her routine up and get the crowd going. A true performer she glances up at her audience and provides the onlookers with a magnificent toothy grin of glee at her achievements in that particular ensemble.

Walking for Flo has however thwarted her attempts at being the worlds first amazingly talented acrobatic baby as she tends to emulate the look of ‘Forrest Gump’. Legs are quivering in a true rendition of Elvis Presley, arms are outstretched like a tightrope walker and the concentration etched onto her chubby little face is one of a constipated toilet bound news presenter about to go ‘live’.

Through all of her mischievous attempts at progression she has in fact mastered some marvellous new skills. For instance, she can competently crawl around at break neck speed, becoming a blur to all around and seizing this opportunity to explore areas of the living room that are strictly out of bounds but have mysteriously become a place of pure attraction like a drunk suit passing a strip club.

I must also mention her incredible laugh which has developed into a ‘Dr Doom’ villainesque cackle filled with mischief, sarcasm and pity for the poor creature she is laughing at. This girl has personality and boy does she want everyone to know it, anyone who has contact with this child is automatically possessed by her charm and lured into the Flo trap whereby anything can happen as long as it makes her smile.

My other little cherub Lilly is chilling out and taking her time at progression. At 14 months old she neither wants to walk or has any inclination of following her daredevil sister’s stunt extravaganza, only eyeing her sister with a nonchalant air and a glint of suspicion as Flo somersaults past.

Lilly is however very good at mimicking both actions and words as I have recently discovered to my regret and even worse to my husband’s horror who gave me a talking to about my choice of language around the children. Yes dearest, sweetest Lilly with the angelic face and laid back manner has mastered and perfected the ‘naughty’ word I use on many occasions ‘Bugger’!. In fact she has educated herself to such extremes in this new language that she regularly shares her new vocabulary with fellow shoppers in the supermarket, her Doctor on a recent check up, grandparents, playgroups and gentle strolls around the family filled local parks. My husband has at this point mastered the art of tutting at me with an accusatory stare at each little expletive mention…..ooops.

One thing Lilly has decided she will attempt and with good practice and regular example has mastered, the high-pitched scream that only children are capable of achieving. In fact walking around our local supermarket recently, I discovered that this may not just be a childlike outflow of aggression and pent-up emotion but instead could be used as a form of communication, for Lilly was having a full-blown scream conversation with a toddler two aisles away from us much to the dismay of fellow grocery shoppers who unaware of the ear torment they are about to receive whilst innocently attempting to carry out their weekly food shop.

Life is certainly becoming that little more intriguing and strenuous as they are growing. As I am reminded on a nearly daily basis by other parents, twin parents, family, friends, postman, milkman and old woman who knew a friend who had a sister who had a daughter who had twins……..it get’s harder! Well gee thanks for that guys, something to look forward to then or should I just end it now and take this prompt from my well wishers to bugger off abroad and find myself…alone!?

I love being a mum again, the thrill of seeing your perfect little creations and thinking, hey we did that, still amazes me on a daily basis, I mean how the hell did the husband and I produce such pretty kids, miracle!!

I also however have a pang of wanting to be a little reckless every now again and no not in the ‘skydiving, chuck myself off large objects with an elastic band tied to my ankles way’, no, the more possible and realistic rebellion a thirty something can perform legally without fear of arrest or death.

I want to share this enthusiasm for pole dancing and have a go, becoming an expert, admired for my lithe limbs, perfectly toned bod and deft moves with the pole! (reality = fat arse swallowing badly fitted g-string, drunken manouveres, smudged make up face leering at shocked audience)

I want to buy a battered old camper van and head on down to Cornwall and surf with the surf dudes, again my imaginary me is spectacular at surfing and super cool with it, also may I add, I look hot in a wet suit, well it would be rude not to if we are going down the ‘imagine that’ path.

I would love to snowboard down a mountain if I could get over my actual fear of getting up the mountain in the first place, okay maybe I could do the snowboarding via a nice little snow dune at the bottom of the mountains but still appear equally as cool, yeah that could work.

I want to sit and have another tattoo, a retro pin up, right there on my shoulder and wear strapless tops minus the bingo wings and fat deposits squished in the underarm compartment, perhaps showing this off whilst riding a rather large sexy powerful motorbike and looking very good at it (Angeline Jolie style).

The reckless me would be off around the world, visiting exotic lands, smoking pot, swimming with sharks, diving in coral reefs and rocking the dreadlock hair style and daring bikini.

Attending festivals all year round and camping out in the good old British weather and not caring if it pours with rain, instead donning wellies and pulling out that daring bikini and soaking up the atmosphere in my drunken hazy head.

Is it a little too much whilst we are it to ask about the possibilities of marrying Robert Pattinson (Aka. Edward cullen, Twilight) okay I know I am being greedy here but give a girl a break.

Am I crazy or do each of us have a little moment of feeling reckless in our own little ways?

Back to reality and I have surmised that I would only get badly bruised both physically and via my ego at attempting Pole Dancing. My wetsuit would reveal three spare tyres and an arse you could park your surf board on. Snow boarding is far too chilly. I don’t like planes much finding my time puking on each journey and apologising to my fellow passengers with sick breath. I would be the dumb diver that decided to panic whilst shark swimming and become shark bait as a result. My dreadlocks would have to be shaved on my return as I had picked up head lice on my travels and my tent would get burnt down by an over zealous fire breathing festival goer.

Therefore my assumption is it is probably better to want to be rebellious and reckless and instead sit back with a nice cuppa, a a bag of crisps and Thelma and Louise on replay…….the life of a wild child!

Before I became a mummy again I had a job, I was an employed person earning her own money and participating in an everyday role.

I did a rather unusual job, I was a self employed Landscaper, designing and building sensory gardens for schools, planting out hospital sites and new build housing developments and building sculptures and outdoor tunnels and domes from Willow, I was rather happy in my little job in my little world……then I found out I was pregnant…….and then I found out it was TWINS.

So the work came to an abrupt halt, I mean a pregnant woman, resembling a beached whale, with swollen ankles, huge swollen boobs and a waddle would look rather amusing pushing a lawn mower or strimming a bank, although I am sure it would have provided some form of entertainment for passing onlookers.

My working days were over and I was now resigned to staying at home and preparing for my new role as hug provider, milk giver and arse wiper.

The little bundles of screaming cherubs arrived and my work began. Boobs on constant display emulating a large pig being suckled to death by its brood. Then came the explosive dispersal of milk via both the top and bottom end of the little creatures and the inevitable constant washing that accompanied this as a result of the explosive poo escaping the confines of the nappies like some renegade soldier set on fleeing the jungle.

No one tells you that your new role will entail many jobs, in fact equipping you to run your own blue chip company single handed. Motherhood in fact involves a multi faceted list of job roles to include Caterer, Customer Relations Officer, HR Officer, Cleaner, Laundry Worker, Negotiator, Sales Person, Waste Collector, Accountant, Entertainer, Nurse and Family Liaison Officer.

Motherhood can only be described as bloody hard work!!!

I often get approached by passers by, asking the same question, “How do you cope with two of them?”,my response is often a fleeting one of “I lock them in the cupboard”, for this is guaranteed to render the enquiring individual speechless, thus allowing me to continue with my purpose, usually shopping with two screaming babies.

In reality though it is bloody hard work but you do cope and you actually come to enjoy your new role and rise to the challenges each day brings and boy do they bring me challenges, oh yes, my little angels delight each day in poo explosions, screaming competitions, holding breath the longest trials and how far the food can be propelled from mouth contest, bless them.

As the old war posters warned us, KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON!

After all there is always a bottle of gin, a nice cold tonic water and a wedge of lime waiting for you at the end of the day, well I don’t mind if I do!

I get myself into various funny situations, often by pure mistake, sometimes by my own admission.(See above Harry Potter demonstration).

Today highlights my point. Off I trundle to the Dentist for the inevitable extraction of a tooth I had been dreading for the past couple of weeks. Sitting in the waiting room I peer around my fellow fearful companions and try to look unconcerned about my imminent doom.

The door opens and I am summoned to my fate, leaping up, I just want this over and done with now, fear gripping me, constricting my throat and making it had to swallow.

My fear must have won over my willing to control myself as the first thing that leaks from my mouth is to announce to the dentist that I am ‘Shit scared and may pee my pants or possibly cry or even run if things get too much’. My dentist, a really nice Greek chap assesses my admission of incontinence and decides to respond with a polite smile and a reassuring gesture of ‘everything will be fine, I don’t intend to cause pain it just happens’, great, thanks for that reassurance I feel so much better now….NOT!

I lay back and the injections are given to numb half of my mouth and tongue and the work begins. The tooth is a Molar and there was no saving it, so Mr Dentist pulls out the largest pair of industrial pliers he had to spare and begins to prize the offending tooth from my mouth. Now at this point there was no pain but rather discomfort at the intensity of his efforts, with arms shaking, my head shaking and the muscles flexing in his arm, it was like he was fighting over a pull rope with a Rottweiler! At one point I honestly though he was going to leap onto my chest and wrench the tooth free from above. Suffice to say the tooth eventually freed itself and appeared in all its gory glory as a magnificent long rooted specimen which for some dumb reason I actually asked to take a look at!

I rinse my mouth and attempt to make conversation by asking the severity of the numbness on my face. Mr Dentist sumises that I do appear to look slightly special and upon glancing in his mirror I must concur I look very special indeed, for my mouth had slipped to one side,I had red marks to my face with the effort of his pliers and I was dribbling like a dog in the back seat of the car who had just spotted the Park.

I walk out of the dentist very concious of my new look, walking hurriedly toward my car whilst attempting to conceal my ‘special’ new features. I arrive at what I felt was the relative safety of my car to be confronted by a loud and raucous wolf whistle, glancing around in amazement and vanity (forgetting my stroke face) I finally spot the source of the whistle.

Yes for I and probably only I had been wolf whistled at and admired, despite my stroke face, by the local town drunk and not any old drunk, no, for he was the star drunk in our latest episode of ‘Coppers’ featured recently on TV.

So I share my claim to fame with you all and feel now I have reached my destiny in life and feel rather flattered by my attentive admirer, inebriated or not :)